


In A Starry Glade

by nomisunrider



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, Sick Fic, Vomiting, can be read as romantic or friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 11:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28742556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/pseuds/nomisunrider
Summary: A routine diplomatic mission goes only slightly awry when Michael Burnham's immune system decides to assert itself after a ceremonial meal.
Relationships: Michael Burnham & Philippa Georgiou, Michael Burnham/Philippa Georgiou
Comments: 5
Kudos: 61





	In A Starry Glade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Radiolaria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiolaria/gifts).



> This is a very old tumblr prompt from 2018, written shortly after I finished Across the Stars. Some mutuals dug it up from the bottom of a tag search and encouraged me to post it here. Probably a good idea, since even I have a hard time finding this story on tumblr and I wrote it.
> 
> Here you go!

The darkened woods have been quiet and still for several hours now, the only audible sound the crackle and snap of the fire, pinpricks of embers dancing up into the murky air beneath the canopy. 

Perhaps the worst is over.

Philippa’s Number One complements her in many ways; her weaknesses are Michael’s strengths and vice versa. Still, the fact that this extends to relative strength of their respective immune systems is somewhat ridiculous.

Philippa’s iron constitution is something of a source of pride for her and always has been. Having made many trips to Penang in her youth, she has indulged in some of Earth’s most notorious street foods and has the stomach to prove it. From Jumasian raw insect stew to infamous Andorian hotpot, Philippa has always been her ship’s point person concerning the respectful partaking of the foods of other cultures, and has escaped each and every one of these situations with little more than a stomach ache.

Michael is the exact opposite.

Growing up on Vulcan, while demanding the highest echelons of her physical and mental strength, had given Michael zero opportunities to develop her immune system, the majority of Vulcan viruses and bacteria being incapable of infecting a Human host. In addition, from the age of nine onward, Michael’s palate consisted of the simple Vulcan vegetarian diet prepared in the most logical manner and cooked to perfection, nary a food-borne germ in sight.

Sadly, this upbringing did not prepare her well for the cultural and immunological melting pot that is the rest of the galaxy.

Michael has been off in the woods for over six hours now, after the ceremonial dinner that accompanied the transfer of power from the Il’Ver’Nalfari king to his daughter had concluded. Her Number One’s obvious dismay at the sight of the meal in front of them had left no doubt in Philippa’s mind as to the state Michael would be in after consuming the flash-boiled stew and all of its décor and fixings.

Still, at least she had managed to hold off the symptoms until they had left the Il’Ver’Nalfari village. 

Ensign Narwani has been casting sympathetic looks into the woods for hours. She had looked green as well after the conclusion of their meal, but it seems that the brisk walk to their small camp in the woods had put her right.

Philippa feels more than just a stab of guilt at the situation. She had been the one to requisition Michael for this mission, after all, even after it became clear that there would be ceremonial imbibing. But Michael is the only xenoanthropologist aboard the Shenzhou who is also skilled in hand-to-hand and primitive close-range weapon combat, vitally important skills in an aggressive culture that values traditional fights as proof of mettle.

Narwani casts a look at Philippa over the crackling fire between them, and her dark eyes flicker in the light of the curling flames.

“I haven’t heard anything in awhile, Captain. Should I go check on her?”

The ensign is understandably nervous. Dignity is vitally important in Vulcan culture, and Narwani would likely rather suffer Michael’s particular symptoms herself than compromise the budding mentor-mentee relationship she has with her commander.

“No, that’s alright,” Philippa responds, her voice soft and sympathetic. “I’ll go, you finish completing our report, Ensign.”

“Aye, Captain.” Narwani’s relief is palpable. “There’s rehydration solution in the med-kit, she might appreciate that.”

“Good thinking,” Philippa nods approvingly, before striding to the med-kit to dig for the rehydration solution. Into her field pack goes the liter-sized medical bottle, hypo-injector, and the adaptor that will connect the two. After a moment of thought, Philippa tosses in a blanket, a flask of water, and a handful of ration crackers.

The romp through the dark old-wood forest would have been downright peaceful, if not for the unpleasant trail that Philippa is following. Still, the trees flicker with an alien form of lightning bug, small insects flashing twinkling purple lights through the leaves. Philippa cannot help but think of the dance floors she would visit in her youth on Earth, strands of winking lights suspended above the flat wooden deck in a dazzling aerial display.

An errant thought springs to mind of Michael in the black dress she had replicated for a Fleet party during shore leave several months earlier. The elegant cut of the dress dipping just below delicate shoulder blades, the dusky yellow light of incandescent bulbs dappling Michael’s dark skin, burnishing her berry-brown eyes to a glowing copper.

The twitch of her muscles as she spun in the arms of an officer from the _U.S.S. Hawking_ , the brilliant flash of her smile utterly betraying her earlier show of reluctance to participate…

Philippa sighs as she tramps through the flickering purple woods.

Would that circumstances could be better.

She finds Michael by nearly tripping over her curled-up body.

Philippa suppresses the string of swears that nearly spring to her lips as she regains her footing. She casts an appraising glance over the form of her tough-as-nails commander now laid utterly low by an alien stew.

“Michael?”

Michael’s response is a weak groan.

Philippa drops to her knees and rubs a hand up Michael’s arm, palm immediately jumping to Michael’s exposed cheek.

Cool and clammy.

Certainly not the brisk, healthy glow that Michael’s face had boasted that afternoon.

“Hey…” Philippa squeezes at Michael’s shoulder, trying to elicit a stronger response. “Alright, love?”

Michael curls up tighter, her body rustling on the leaf-covered forest floor. Her hair is mussed up and starting to curl at the ends, and Philippa turns on her head-torch to its lowest setting to better see her patient.

 _Good God_.

Michael’s brown skin now carries a sickly gray tint, and she seems to be shivering, something that Philippa had not picked up on in the dusky half-light of the forest insects.

“Can you talk to me, please?” Philippa gets the question out quickly as she digs for the blanket in her pack. “I know you can hear me.”

“Mmm,” Michael whimpers. “Philippa…”

Her voice is rasping; she sounds parched. Philippa places the flask of water in front of Michael before unfolding the blanket and spreading it over her form. Michael makes no move to get the flask; either she is still sick or desperately weakened from her earlier illness.

Philippa moves faster, spinning back to retrieve the rehydration solution and its accompanying equipment.

“Give me your arm, Number One.”

“Can’t walk,” comes the weak denial.

“We’re not walking, I’m rehydrating you.”

“Oh.”

Michael flops her arm out of the blanket, and Philippa scoots around to her front. She rolls up the sleeve of Michael’s jacket, brushing cold fingertips as she does so. An intense desire to hold Michael tightly until she warms up strikes Philippa right in the heart, but she suppresses it quickly.

There will be time later.

The rehydration solution connects easily to the adapter, and with a quick prick into one of the exposed vein in the crook of Michael’s elbow, the catheter deploys and the solution begins its uptake. Philippa gives a quiet sigh of relief. Unable to stop herself, Philippa’s fingertips find purchase between Michael’s shoulder blades. She rubs gentle and firm, slow, easy circles across Michael’s back.

This is not the first time she has found her friend like this, though it never seems to get any easier.

“What am I going to do with you?” Philippa finds herself asking, her voice fond and lilting in the blackness of the undergrowth.

Michael sighs under her hand, but says nothing.

“Six years you have been performing missions, exposing yourself to all manner of pathogens. When is your stomach going to catch up?”

Several quiet moments pass.

Finally: “It is catching up.”

Michael can probably sense Philippa’s disbelieving stare, for she elaborates.

“The ratio of…alien meals to…violent digestive incidents…is increasing…rather encouragingly…”

 _More meals, less illness_ , Philippa quickly translates in her head, and has to chuckle softly at the positive spin her commander seems to be trying to put on a certainly un-positive situation.

“There’s that silver lining,” Philippa murmurs. Her hand twitches, her fingertips reaching to comb through Michael’s hair, but she stops herself just in time.

She knows that Michael does not enjoy that particular form of physical comfort.

Instead, her hand lands on Michael’s shoulder, rubbing at her bicep encouragingly.

“Wish…I’d tried more things…when I was little…”

The words come out in less of a rasp, more of whisper; the hydration solution is working.

“Oh?” Philippa has heard these words from Michael before, but she is happy to hear Michael speak without prompting.

“Amanda…tried her best …I was a picky eater…when I was Human…”

Philippa’s lips twitch in acknowledgement of the interesting word choice.

“And now you will eat nothing but broth and oatmeal for the next week.” Philippa sighs dramatically. “Two steps forward, one step back.”

Michael makes an amused sound, or, Philippa realizes, perhaps a sound of different nature. She tenses, readying herself to jump out of the way, but it seems that her first assumption was correct.

“Philippa?”

“Hm?”

“You’re funny.”

Philippa cannot help but grin at this, and is grateful that Michael will not be able to see the ridiculous expression crossing her face in the darkness of the forest floor. She sits in silence for several peaceful minutes and relishes the gentle rise-and-fall of her commander’s shoulder beneath her hand, the gradual unclenching of Michael frame on the ground in front of her.

The indicator lights on the bottle blink green, the rehydration protocol is complete.

“All done, love.” Philippa murmurs. She takes Michael’s arm in gentle hands and eases the catheter out. Michael does not even twitch at the move, Philippa wonders if she has fallen asleep, right there on the hard earth.

Perhaps she should not have brought the blanket.

Philippa counts in her head as she packs the injector and empty bottle away. The rate of Michael’s breathing is slower now, but not quite slow enough to be true sleep.

“It would be most illogical to sleep on a hard forest floor when you have a comfortable bed only fifty meters to the southwest.”

Michael does not correct Philippa on her imprecise estimation. She must have been desperately ill when she made this journey six hours earlier to have not measured the distance beneath her feet.

Philippa’s heart gives a pang in her chest at the thought.

“Come on, Michael, we’re leaving. Can you walk?”

Michael shifts slightly in her position. Philippa understands that she is taking stock of her body’s current condition, her physical readiness, her strength and her equilibrium.

“Can you help me?” She finally asks in whisper.

Philippa snorts. “What a question.”

Michael’s arm wraps across her back, and with fairly little effort, Philippa presses to her feet, dragging her commander’s nearly-limp body up with her.

“Gym sessions…paying off…” Michael mumbles as her boots find purchase beneath her body. Her body spasms suddenly, and she dry-heaves over the forest floor in what sounds like a desperately painful way. Nothing comes up, but this scares Philippa more than if the opposite had been true.

“What the hell was in that stew?” Philippa’s whispered demand is rhetorical, but she knows that Narwani had taken samples of each of their bowls.

This merits investigation at a later time.

For now, she holds Michael’s shaking body tight to her as they stagger through the forest. Fireflies wink in and out of existence above them, illuminating the trees in pale violet bursts of light. 

“Did you at least see any of the local fauna during your excursion?”

Philippa gestures upwards with her head as she asks the question.

“Didn’t…spend much time…looking up,” comes the response. Philippa picks up on the dry undertone, and the knot in her chest unclenches ever so slightly at the thought of her desperately ill Number One being cognizant enough for humor.

“Fair enough.”

She wonders if there will be time to take Michael to see the fireflies when she is better. Nights on this planet are 17.45 hours long and there is no mission deadline, after all…

But Philippa vetoes the thought almost as soon as it crosses her mind. Michael will not want to be anywhere but a warm bed in the comforting familiarity of her own quarters for the next day or so. To keep her on-planet, out in the elements as she recovers, simply so that Philippa can indulge in her own whimsical desires would be selfish to the point of cruel.

They will be leaving once Michael is well enough for particle-dissociative transport.

The flickering orange light of Narwani’s hastily-built fire comes into view. The young ensign had kept the flames alive to guide them back to camp, and Philippa cannot help but feel touched at the notion.

Narwani gives Michael a quick once-over once the two of them stagger into camp, but she says nothing. Instead, she quietly begins to extinguish the fire in preparation to return to her tent, and Philippa makes a note of this in her head.

It is the junior tactical officer’s fourth away mission, and she is already composing herself a great deal better than her first.

Michael crawls into her tent under her own power, and Philippa is grateful for this. Ducking and crawling is not so easy for her now as it was twenty years ago.

Unable to stop herself, Philippa follows after Michael. She _had_ been dangerously dehydrated to the point of hypovolemic shock a mere half-hour previous, to leave her alone in this state would be downright negligent.

“Do you need anything?” Philippa whispers as she helps Michael tuck the blanket around herself.

Michael is quiet, but Philippa can feel her internal war.

“Will you stay with me?” She finally asks, her voice small in the extreme. “Just until I fall asleep?”

Something warm and soft bursts in Philippa’s chest at the question, at the notion of her fiercely independent friend desiring her presence in this difficult time.

_Like she even had to ask._

“Of course.” Philippa rubs Michael’s back encouragingly, crossing her legs for better comfort.

“Not…like that.” Michael whispers, and Philippa can hear vulnerability in her voice.

She waits, ready for Michael to clarify.

In lieu of words, Michael only rolls onto her side, turning her back to Philippa. She scoots several inches forward, clearing up some space on her sleeping pad.

Philippa puts two-and-two together immediately, and smiles softly at Michael’s display.

She uncurls her legs, folding herself around Michael’s body in a protective way. One arm wraps gently around Michael’s midsection. The other attempts to wrap beneath her body, but Michael doesn’t move.

Perhaps her stomach is not quite ready for that.

Philippa feels a long sigh beneath her arm, and though she knows Michael is likely already asleep, her own eyes flutter shut, her body warm and comfortable beneath the blanket.

She can stay until Michael wakes up.


End file.
